


Let It Be Enough

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [123]
Category: Hamilton - Fandom, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8753461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "any fandom, any character, even to burn all his (her) letters doesn't make her (him) feel better". Eliza meets four strange soldiers in the woods on the edge of the estate where she's staying after the publication of the Reynolds Pamphlet. One of them is injured, so she offers them christian charity. And she burns Alexander's letters. And she tries to figure out what will make her whole again. Featuring time travel (a Stargate trope) and a truly whacked-out crossover. But not crack-y.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I worked some of the lyrics from Burn into Eliza's thoughts.

Of course they left the city. Of course they went upstate to where they’d been staying during that summer when Alexander had his disastrous affair. Philip hid inside with the piano, reading poetry. Little Angelica, Little Alexander, and James spent their time outdoors. Angelica, bless her heart, was always on hand to sing with them, to play with them, to read to them, so Eliza could be on her own. So she could think, and remember how to breathe, and maybe how not to hurt.

But she hurt, with every breath, with every waking moment. She looked at her children and saw Alexander in their eyes and smiles, their intelligence, and she remembered the betrayal, the woman Alexander had brought into her house and her bed. She remembered not only how he’d brought that woman but the world - the press, the public - into their bed, her life, her heart. And she wanted to scream.

Instead she’d banished Alexander to sleep in his office.

And then she’d left the city for a while, because she couldn’t handle all the eyes on her.

Eliza went walking. She avoided the park with the lake, instead headed for the woods.

She needed time to think, time alone. Time to weep, where her children couldn’t see. They didn’t understand the upset in the house, but they could sense it. They were bright. Just like their father.

She was just about ready to turn and head back to the house when she saw them. Four men, wearing unusual clothes, gray trousers and shirtsleeves with bulky black waistcoats. Two men supported a third between them, and the fourth walked ahead of them. He carried a rifle of some sort, black and sleek and unlike anything Eliza had ever seen before.

Eliza let loose a cry, pressing her hand to her mouth.

Immediately the man lowered his rifle. He was a soldier. From which army, Eliza had no clue, but she recognized the intensity in his eyes. And the weariness.

“Ma’am,” he said, “we mean you no harm. Please. One of my men has been shot.”

“Shot! By whom? The British?”

The man blinked, looked her up and down, raised one hand. The men behind him halted.

“No, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Not to sound strange, but what year is it?”

Eliza told him.

Anguish crossed his face.

“Sir?” one of the other soldiers asked. “What do we do?”

“We wait for someone to rescue us,” the man said.

“But -”

“McKay or Zelenka will figure it out.” The man took a deep breath. “If you please just give us a clean space to treat Reed’s wound, we will leave you as undisturbed as possible.”

Reed, the injured soldier, looked barely more than a boy, with a smooth face and golden curls.

All of the men wore their hair short, as if they were children. Something about the shortness of their hair was - menacing. Feral. They had square jaws and thick necks and Eliza was afraid.

But she lifted her chin. “Of course. I will offer what Christian hospitality I can, unless you are enemies of the Union.”

“Not enemies,” the man said. He turned slightly and she saw, on his left shoulder, a delicately embroidered patch that looked like the American flag, but instead of fifteen stars it had - more than she could count.

“You’re American?”

“Born and bred, ma’am.”

“But your flag -”

The man winced. “The fewer questions we ask each other, probably the better.”

“May I know your name, good sir?”

“Apologies. Major Lorne. My men - Lieutenant Walker, Lieutenant Stevens, Sergeant Reed.”

“I am Eliza Hamilton,” she said. “It is an honor to meet you, Major.” She eyed Walker, who was remarkably tall, compared to Lorne. He had dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin. Stevens was a negro.

“And you, Ms. Hamilton.”

She blinked. “Miz?”

“I don’t know whether you’re married, ma’am.” Lorne winced again. “I wasn’t sure if the appropriate form of address was Missus or Miss.”

“Maybe you should stop talking, sir,” Stevens said. “Before you mess something up. Something we can’t fix. Something bigger than fish in a pond.”

“I am married,” Eliza said, but the word caught in her throat, and she had to lower her gaze, look away.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” Lorne offered. “Or is it - Goodwife Hamilton? Goody Hamilton?”

“Sir, I’ve been shot, but you’re hurting me worse than the bullet,” Reed managed, and the other two laughed.

“Mrs. Hamilton will suffice, Major Lorne.”

“Right.” Lorne cleared his throat. “Please, ma’am. Lead the way and we’ll get out of your, er, business as soon as possible.”

“The house is this way.” Eliza turned and headed back toward the house. “Once we are near, you should stay back. So I may have my sister take the children somewhere where they will not see -”

“Blood. Injuries. Right. Thank you for your help. You’re saving Reed’s life.” Lorne smiled, and he had perfectly white, even teeth. Dimples. Blue eyes. He was handsome. Perhaps only a few years younger than Alexander.

Lorne and his men honored Eliza’s request and paused behind a ridge out of view of the house, letting Eliza go ahead. She told Angelica she wanted the house to herself for a time, told her to take the children into town and take the maid with them, and Angelica, believing Eliza’s request was made out of grief, agreed.

Eliza hovered by the window in the parlor overlooking the ridge where Lorne and his men were waiting, anxious. The longer Angelica lingered, the closer young Reed came to death. But finally Angelica bundled the children out the door, with parting hugs and kisses and Betsey the maid following them to the coach, and finally, the house was empty.

Eliza abandoned decorum, dashed out of the house and called, “Lorne! Lorne, it is safe now!”

She stood, holding her breath, and studied the ridge until she saw Lorne approaching, his soldiers behind him. They reached the house in good time, but Reed’s breathing was labored with pain, his face pale, his brow damp with a cold sweat.

“What do you need?” Eliza asked.

“Walker, you have some medic training, right?” Lorne asked.

“Yep. Stable. Take us to the stable,” Walker said, and Eliza hurried ahead of them to lead them to the stable. It was empty.

Walker and Stevens lowered Reed onto a stool.

“What do we have, what do we need?” Reed panted.

The question had an air of a prayer to it, but Walker said, “We need hot water, a needle, silk thread, a candle, and - alcohol. The strongest you have.”

All of the soldiers were wearing those bulky black waistcoats adorned with bulging pockets. Walker and Stevens wrangled Reed out of his and set it aside.

Eliza peered at it, intrigued.

Lorne checked his own pockets. “I have alcohol wipes and a lighter.”

“What about honey?” Stevens asked. “Can honey be used to treat a wound?”

“That’s for burns,” Walker said absently.

Reed had a bullet wound in his thigh, which someone had bound with white gauze that was deeply stained red.

“I have more bandages,” Eliza offered.

Walker nodded. “Thank you. We need those. We would offer to pay you, but -”

“But we’ll work something out, I promise.” Lorne took a deep breath. “Lieutenant -”

Walker reiterated his list of needed supplies. “Major, can you help me? Stevens, go with Mrs. Hamilton -”

Stevens straightened up, and he was so very tall. Eliza flinched. Evan caught Walker’s eye, shook his head briefly.

“I’ll go with Mrs. Hamilton. Stevens, you stay here. Do you have a needle and thread, ma’am?”

“I do,” she said. “I shall put a kettle on the stove for hot water.” Eliza led Lorne back into the house without hesitation, told him to wait in the kitchen. She put on a kettle, then hurried to fetch linens, a needle and a spool of silk thread, and a bottle of whiskey. When she returned, she loaded the items into Lorne’s arms.

He thanked her and hurried out to the stable. Eliza promised to follow soon with hot water.

When the kettle finally whistled, she found a bowl and poured the water into it, then carried it into the stable.

And paused at the tableau.

Lorne and the other men had shed their waistcoats and their shirtsleeves, had laid their shirtsleeves on the hay for Reed to rest on, and they were all wearing - undergarments. Eliza could see the ripple of muscle in Lorne’s upper arms and forearms as he pinned Reed down.

“It’s infected,” Walker said, and Eliza was jolted back into action when she saw the yellowing pus leaking from the wound in Reed’s thigh.

Reed had been divested of his boots and trousers, wore only a pair of shorts, an under-shirt, and his stockings. He was thrashing and moaning in pain, and it took three men to hold him down while Walker did his best to clean the wound with the whiskey.

“I know it hurts,” Walker said, “but you need to hold still while I dig the bullet out. Major, Stevens, keep pressure on his leg.”

Lorne and Stevens nodded grimly.

“I have water,” Eliza said.

Walker glanced up. “Thank you. Set it down on the stool there, please.”

Eliza obeyed.

“How can I help?”

“You’d best step outside,” Walker said. “It’s about to get ugly in here.”

“If you need my help at all,” Eliza began.

Lorne smiled tightly. “We’ll call. Thank you for everything you’ve done, Mrs. Hamilton. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Sir,” Walker said, “you said you had a lighter?”

Eliza didn’t know what to make of their flat-voweled accents, their strange clothes or way of speaking, but something in Lorne’s eyes made her trust him, so she turned and headed for the door.

She glanced over her shoulder just before she pulled open the door, and she saw Walker heating the blade of a knife with a flame, only she had brought him no candle or matches. Perhaps he had some of his own, in those bulging pockets of his waistcoat.

All Eliza could do was pace in the kitchen and strain to hear anything from the stables.

She heard nothing.

And the men didn’t call for her.

Seemingly an eternity later - though perhaps only a couple of hours - Lorne stepped into the kitchen. His hands were stained with blood, and his gaze was hollow.

“Major Lorne?”

“He didn’t make it. It’s a mess in there. We’ll clean it.”

“I am terribly sorry.”

“We’ll need a shovel.”

Eliza stood at the kitchen window and watched as Lorne and his men carried Reed far away, to the the trees on the other side of the little ridge, Lorne and Stevens bearing his weight, Walker carrying the shovel they’d found in the stables, two wooden pickets, a hammer, and a fistful of nails.

They returned as the sun was setting, just the three of them, Lorne carrying the shovel and the hammer.

They went into the stables, and when they emerged, it was for Lorne to return the bowl of hot water, which they’d used to clean up. They were wearing their jackets and waistcoats again. They’d kept all of Reed’s battle gear, which made sense. Battle gear was expensive.

“Thank you again for your Christian charity, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lorne said. He lifted his chin at his lieutenants, said, “Move out.”

As one, they headed for the door.

Eliza said, “Wait. Where will you sleep?”

“We’re soldiers, ma’am. We’re used to sleeping rough.”

“The stable is safer. And with Angelica and the children and the staff gone, I do not wish to be alone. You have demonstrated that you are men of honor, so - please. Stay. Have supper. There are books and there is a piano, and -”

And Eliza realized she didn’t want to be alone.

Stevens laughed brokenly. “Reed plays the piano.” Then he cleared his throat. “Played. He played the piano.”

“All he could play was hymns,” Walker said, and he looked both terribly amused and heartbroken.

“It’s a very kind offer, ma’am, but we promised to get out of your hair as soon as -”

“Please, Major Lorne. I need - protection. I cannot stay alone.” And suddenly Eliza had a terrible, terrible urge. But she drew herself up taller, looked Lorne in the eye. “Please.”

“Then we accept your offer of sleeping in the stable,” Lorne said. “Let us repay you. Let us - cook for you. Dinner. It is the only humble payment we can offer.”

Eliza raised her eyebrows. “You can cook?”

“He’s a great cook,” Walker said fervently.

“Security and dinner,” Lorne said. “Our payment for your charity.”

“Charity requires no payment,” Eliza said. “I simply ask for charity from you.”

“Stevens, Walker, mark the perimeter. I’ll get started on dinner.” Lorne shrugged off his waistcoat and set it aside, along with his rifle, though he kept the pistol-looking weapon strapped to his thigh. He also shed his jacket, and then he surveyed the kitchen. “Right. This might be a bit harder than I first anticipated. Where do you keep your food?”

Eliza gave him a brief tour of the kitchen, saw the concentration descend in his gaze. He was planning, calculating. Eliza knew that look. Major Lorne was intelligent, whoever he was. Not as verbose as Alexander, but -

“All right, Mrs. Hamilton, sit back and relax, and I’ll make dinner.” Lorne smiled at her.

“Is it common, in your family, for the man to do the cooking? Or was your father a chef?”

“Ah, no. My father passed away before I was born. I was raised by mother and grandmother.” Lorne pushed up the sleeves of his undershirt, revealing gleaming golden skin, and he reached for a knife, tested the blade with his thumb.

Usually Eliza stayed in the study with the children while Betsey cooked, but she sat down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table and watched Lorne work. He was calm, competent. Confident. When he was slicing carrots and cautiously tasting spices and herbs, he didn’t seem like a soldier at all. He’d told her to relax, but he was the one who was relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“Major Lorne,” Eliza said. “What is your christian name?”

“My what? Oh. Evan. I’m Evan Alexander Lorne. My father was Alexander Evan, so -” He shrugged, glanced over his shoulder at her. “So is Eliza short for Elizabeth, or is it just Eliza?”

“It is Elizabeth, yes.” She cleared her throat, then added, “Alexander is my husband’s name.”

Lorne smiled at her. “That’s a cool coincidence.”

“Cool?” Eliza echoed, puzzled.

Lorne winced again. “Sorry. I meant - interesting. Wait - Alexander Hamilton. As in the guy on the - the guy who gave us the central banking system?”

“Former Secretary of the Treasury, yes,” Eliza said.

Lorne swallowed hard. “Well, I guess we’re sort of dining with royalty. Mrs. Hamilton. It’s a huge honor. Is Mr. Hamilton in New York? Wait, no, the capital must have moved to, er, the Potomac, right? You just on vacation while he works?”

How little Lorne knew of the world and politics, for a soldier, and yet how little Eliza knew of his circumstances. He’d learned much about her just from learning her husband’s name.

“Mr. Hamilton remains in New York,” Eliza said. “I needed some time away. After the Reynolds Pamphlet.”

Lorne looked confused. “I don’t think I’ve read that.”

Not every soldier could read.

“In which my husband detailed his affair with Mrs. Reynolds,” Eliza said flatly.

Lorne’s hands stilled. “I’m very sorry, Ma’am. If you need me and my men to go - we really can sleep outside. It’ll be at least a day before the rest of our - forces - send help.”

“I came to get away from the stares, the whispers, the judgment. Everyone knows.” Eliza looked up at Lorne ruefully. “You didn’t know. I should have left it. Wasn’t that what you said? The fewer questions we ask each other, the better.”

“So you came here to be alone -”

“And now I don’t want to be alone.”

Lorne’s entire body stilled, but then he resumed chopping vegetables apace.

“Did you know? Alexander sent me letters. Letters upon letters upon letters, while we were courting, and when he was on the front lines in the war.”

“People should send more letters,” Lorne said quietly. “I don’t send enough letters home.”

“To your wife?”

“No wife. No woman’s been patient enough to wait for me while I’m out on the front line.”

Eliza studied him. He was handsome, strong, clean. Intelligent. Perhaps he was from a poor family, had earned his commission through his own genius. He could have had a wife, if he chose, or perhaps he had some fatal flaw, some hamartia so his story would end in tears.

“I kept every letter he wrote.” Eliza stared down at her hands. “His words were cathedrals, were palaces, left me breathless -” Her voice hitched, and she cut herself off. “I want to burn them.”

Lorne said nothing, and Eliza continued. “He let the world see how he broke my heart. I will not let the world see how he stole my heart, all those years ago.”

Lorne cleared his throat, and Eliza looked up at him.

“I need to light the fire anyway.”

And Eliza was out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. When she returned with the stack of letters bound by a velvet ribbon, her hands were shaking.

Lorne was kneeling at the hearth, arranging firewood.

Eliza sank to her knees beside him. “Do you need matches? Or a flint and tinder?”

Lorne shook his head, reached out, and there was a flame in his hand, like Walker had used to heat his knife. He leaned in and touched it to the edge of a log, then sat back on his haunches and waited for the flame to catch.

It did, swift and sure and true, like justice. Like retribution.

Eliza tugged the first letter free of the ribbon and touched the corner to the flame. She watched it blacken and curl, devour the ink and words - Alexander’s words - irrevocably and forever. When it was black and ash, she fed the next letter to the fire.

And the next. She was erasing herself from the narrative. Future historians could wonder how she reacted when Alexander broke her heart, tore her life apart. She fed the letters into the flames faster and faster, and the flames danced higher and higher.

She glanced over at Lorne, who was still kneeling beside her, gazing into the flames, and she saw his eyes were wet with unshed tears. He’d lost a man today. Reed had likely died under his hands. They were both heartbroken.

Eliza reached out. “Evan?”

He turned to her. She was clutching the empty ribbon. The letters were gone. Every one. She still felt hollow, gutted, like her heart had been carved out of her chest and ice left in its place.

Lorne blinked. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Please, call me Eliza.”

Lorne shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes. Eliza. Sorry. I need to get the food on the fire.” He started to rise, and Eliza put a hand on his arm, stilling him.

He blinked at her. “Ma’am?”

She leaned in and kissed him.

He pulled back. “Eliza. Mrs. Hamilton. I’m sorry, I can’t -”

Eliza tugged him to her. “Please, Evan. Give this to me. If I can understand the thrill, I can understand the mistake, and I can forgive -”

“Him, maybe, but never yourself.” Evan shook his head. “Please. I can’t.”

And with a rush of shame, Eliza realized what she had been about to do. She stood up quickly, crossed the kitchen. “Your restraint does you a credit, Major Lorne.”

He pushed himself to his feet, looking pale and unsteady and as heartbroken as she felt. But he smiled, and his smile was sweet and somehow eased some of the ache in her chest. “As does yours, Mrs. Hamilton.” He went back to the kitchen table, to the vegetables he’d cut. “Tell me, Mrs. Hamilton, have you ever made a garden bake?”

“A what?”

“It’s like a casserole.”

Eliza was still confused. “I confess, I never learned much in the kitchen. We always had maids -”

“Right. Well, it’s never too late to learn. In case you ever find yourself like tonight, without your maid.” Lorne beckoned, and Eliza edged close. She tucked the ribbon away, and when Lorne offered her a kitchen knife, she accepted.

She helped him chop more vegetables, stir up some flour and water and butter, and put it all into a heavy cast-iron baking dish that he called a Dutch oven, and then he levered it onto the coals in the fireplace.

“Now,” Lorne said, sinking down on one of the sturdy wooden stools, “we wait. Walker and Stevens will be in when it’s ready.”

Sure enough, Walker and Stevens returned just as Lorne was using a massive wooden paddle to lever the Dutch oven out of the fireplace. They stripped off their waistcoats and jackets just as Lorne had, and the three men sat on various stools, allowing Eliza exclusive use of the table while they ate.

They said little, speaking softly to each other. Eliza overheard mentions of Reed and again the mysterious McKay. After supper, Walker and Stevens did the washing up out at the pump, and Lorne declared it was time to retire. He promised that someone would keep watch all night, assigned rotating watch shifts among his men, and then the three of them retired to the stable.

When Eliza woke in the morning, the stable was empty.

There was a note on the kitchen table in careful handwriting, copied as if from a book, the letters unjoined.

_Thank you for your christian charity. You helped more than four stranded soldiers - you helped an entire galaxy._

It was signed, _Maj. E. Lorne._

Eliza puzzled over the reference to a galaxy, but she folded the letter and, after a deliberate thought, tied the velvet ribbon around it. She would add other letters to it, over time.

Burning the letters had not eased her pain. Kissing a handsome man had not eased her pain.

But maybe helping others would.

She could start small, with small children.

An orphanage.


End file.
